Lady Meets Her Match (6 page)

Those words hit him like a jab to a fresh bruise. Cyrus stepped onto the wide Cornhill road, dodging a steaming pile. “You mean my hunt for a certain woman.”

“Yes. Why look for a woman who doesn't want to be found?” North spoke over the road's clamor. “When others like the lovely Lady Isabella Foster move conveniently in your path?”

“My connection with her ended.”

“You could pursue Lady Churchill,” North suggested. “A young woman who by all appearances would shed her lofty position to be joined with you.”

“You mean stoop low enough to marry the likes of me?” Cyrus growled.

“You know what I mean.”

Yet North couldn't look him in the eye.

Cyrus shrugged off the unintended insult, looking to the shops ahead. “I'm not stirred to move beyond the surface I've already scratched with Lady Churchill or Lady Foster. And I'm not on the hunt for a wife.”

“But you are on the hunt for a certain mystery woman.”

He was sure his friend wanted to pick at the fresh wound that was Miss Tottenham. He couldn't answer what he didn't fully understand.

There was wanting her, yes, but what would he do if he found her?

Lascivious ideas aside, did he plan to give the lady her shoe back? Chastise her for sneaking into his house and stealing a dance? For that, so far, was her gravest wrongdoing. In the bright light of day, evidence pointed at no true crime having been committed, save the damage to his pride.

No, he couldn't stop his hunt.

Beside him, North hefted high his walking stick, pointing at a blue-lettered sign: The New Union Coffeehouse.

“Let's try that one. Opened over a week ago. Heard some at the Exchange raving over the pastries. That is, of course, if you don't mind the raucous crowd.”

His friend preferred the stately formality of expensive gentlemen's clubs. Cyrus hardly frequented coffeehouses, but he wasn't bothered by the prospect of the noisy, common crowd. Coffeehouses were London's hubs of equality, a gathering place for men to share a mug and share their views, no matter their rank.

The Royal Exchange banned common traders for being too loud and disruptive, rabble-rousers in the ever-shifting world of high commerce. A chosen few commoners received special permission from the Crown to conduct business within the Exchange. Cyrus was one of them. The rest milled about the wharfs or hunkered down in midtown taverns and coffee shops to ply their trades through runners delivering messages.

On the other side of the shop's mullioned window, merchants and traders gossiped and debated, the wavy panes distorting their animated faces. Every subject fell under their jurisdiction, from politics to the price of wool and cotton, all the while waiting for messengers to come with fresh news, news to be posted on the chalkboards found in London's coffee shops.

Passing through the doorway, they were greeted with the hot, earthy aromas of strong coffee mingled with cinnamon apple. A smart proprietor ought to leave the door open, all the better to lure the casual pedestrian inside.

“Ahh, fresh-baked apple tarts.” North tipped his nose up, breathing deep. “You get a table, and I'll ask about the pastries.”

Patrons occupied black lacquered tables and chairs scattered around the long room. High-backed benches, shining from a recent coat of onyx paint, lined both sides of the establishment's brick walls. A tall lad of eighteen or nineteen years poured coffee into a pair of white mugs behind the counter.

Cyrus sought a table near the window, keeping his back to the bench for a better view of the place. He dropped his hat beside him, catching sight of a man slouched nearby. The man sat alone, his black tricorne pulled low over his eyes, but he recognized him.

Lord Marcus Bowles.

Black boots, scraped and muddied, sprawled before him. His stained shirt opened at the neck. The brown-and-green-striped waistcoat he wore gapped from missing buttons, the fabric moving up and down in the relaxed flow of a man fast asleep.

North came to the table, his hat and walking stick clamped under his arm while bearing two white mugs of steaming brew. A black stencil proclaimed
The
New
Union
Coffeehouse
on the sturdy stoneware.

“Fresh tarts will be out of the oven soon,” he said, settling himself in a chair.

Cyrus motioned to Bowles. “Looks like he's not at the Nagshead or the White Lyon.”

North glanced across the bench, his mouth a flat line. “At least I know he's not smashing up taverns.” He shifted to rise, but Cyrus stopped him.

“Let him sleep. He's not causing trouble…as long as the proprietor doesn't mind.” He hooked his finger through the mug's handle, looking around for the man in charge.

Right then, two lads ran panting into the shop, papers crushed in their fists. One gangly youth delivered his notes to a round, florid-faced trader wearing a gray yarn wig. The trader dug out a farthing for payment and read aloud the news to five men sitting with him. An energetic debate on the price of wheat ensued.

The other lad went to a chalkboard, pondering the note in his hand. Cyrus scanned more of the coffee shop, his study catching a slender woman emerging from a passageway near the counter. She balanced a wide tray of pastries. A larger than normal mobcap covered her hair, but something about her…the glimpse of her face made him look twice.

He craned his neck, but the shopgirl set the wide tray on the counter and turned her back to him. She stretched for a coffee grinder from a high shelf, her willow-slim body a pleasant sight.

“Nate…more coals on the fire…” She spoke over her shoulder to the tall youth at the counter.

She curled her hands in her apron, wiping them as she looked to the lad at the chalkboard. Her profile struck Cyrus oddly, but the mobcap's frill obscured her face. Some women pinned a small scrap of cloth to their heads in the name of propriety, but this shopgirl covered every strand of hair.

He watched her while North relayed his brother's latest exploits. Something about the shopgirl teased his memory like a pleasant taste he couldn't recall. Was she from his home village of Stretford? Cyrus sipped his coffee, keeping vigil on the woman in his periphery.

She set a tender hand on the shoulder of the older boy standing at the chalkboard, whispering something to him. The lad passed paper and chalk to her and disappeared into a doorway leading to what must be the kitchen. One slim arm covered in plain gray broadcloth cuffed past her elbow moved over the blackboard. She wrote neat lines, her skirts swaying with her movement.

Light gray fabric draped her slender bottom. The white bow of her apron cinched her small waist, the ties fluttering down her gentle curves. No large hip roll masked her shape.

He grinned at a simple truth: working women tolerated no taxing fashion. They wore simpler hip rolls. Practical demands of their everyday world required maneuverability such as the woman at the chalkboard carrying on with grace.

And he was worse than a stripling lad the way he ogled her.

But something about her reminded him of…
home
?

She finished listing ships and goods docked off Tower Wharf and dusted her hands of chalk. Men clustered behind her to read the news, beginning lively discussions on
The
Grosvenor
's cargo of indigo and saltpeter, but under the table, a shoe nudged his shin.

“Go to the counter. You'll get a better look.” North folded his arms across his chest, bunching Greek-patterned embroidery on a fine waistcoat.

“It's not what you think,” he said. “I recognize her…think she's from Stretford.”

“Then while you're figuring it out, why not get us some tarts?”

A pair of macaronies entered the shop, mincing their way to the counter in high-heeled shoes painted garish shades of green and yellow to match equally revolting coats and breeches. At the counter, the young fops dawdled, discussing the merits of one pastry over another.

Rising from the table, his body loosened. The shopgirl could be exactly what he needed. He warmed to the idea of a pleasant diversion with a less-complicated woman.

Between the high-wigged macaronies and the woman's oversized mobcap, he couldn't get a good view of her face. The fops paid for their pastries and moved on, their heels clicking on plank floors. Right as Cyrus ambled to the counter, the lady dipped out of sight. The lad, Nate, plunked a bucket of coal on the floor and wiped his hands with his apron.

“Sir, can I get ye something?”

Cyrus tried to see over the block counter but earned little more than glimpses of her gray-skirted bottom. She crouched on the floor, appearing to lean into what must be shelves underneath.

Another time.

He glanced at the tall youth. “Two apple tarts.”

Nate set two plates on the counter, cocking his head. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

He had a pretty good idea the source of the lad's recollection. The tall, gangly youth had the look of an East Ender about him, but what the shop boy likely knew was something Cyrus would rather not have bandied about in midtown.

“Don't think so.” Cyrus averted his eyes to the chalkboard, rubbing the sore spot on his neck.

The shopgirl made lots of noise rummaging through goods. He drew out coins for payment. Nate scooped the tarts onto two plates, all the while studying Cyrus behind a black forelock hanging over his eyes. Young though he was, the lad wore cleverness about him the way others wore wealth and position.

On the other side of the counter, the woman spoke up from the floor, louder this time.

“Nate, have you seen a cherrywood box with a heart carved on the lid? It's long and narrow”—there was more rustling—“about this big.”

That
voice.

The small hairs on his neck bristled.

Images of a laughing, blond coquette in a low-cut gown teased him. The voice went with the lithe body dancing through his memory these past weeks. He set a claiming hand on the countertop, staring at the gray-skirted bottom coming in and out of view.

The lad picked up the plates, his green eyes hard slits on Cyrus. “No, Miss Mayhew, haven't see it.”

The youth idled, puffing out his chest. Protective of the woman, was he?

“To the table by the window, if you please.” Cyrus kept his voice firm and the lad moved with sullen steps.

Stoneware clanked. The shopgirl set a steadying hand on the counter—a hand good at untying things, a hand with a pink, star-shaped scar.

A hefty brawler could've knocked him in the gut for the way his stomach muscles clenched. Behind him, the shop burst with male laughter and boisterous boasts. Life went on as usual for everyone else, but where he stood, stormy silence swirled.

“Excuse me. I might have what you're looking for…
Miss
Tottenham
.”

The gray skirt ceased moving.

Cyrus wasn't a hunter, not in the conventional sense. But he recognized the moment when prey froze, clinging to a split second of freedom while deciding: fight or flight. And he waited, his pulse quickening. She hadn't seen him standing there, but she heard him.

The
vixen
remembered
his
voice.

A thrill coursed through him, sharpening his wits. What would she do when she faced him?

His quarry set her other hand, dusted with flour, on the plank counter. She rose to full height and pretty blue-green eyes met his with cool challenge.

“Thank you, but you have no idea what I want.”

Her chin tipped high and a long tendril fluttered against her cheek.

That show of bravado roused him, stoking his fire for her. He
liked
that she looked him in the eye. A lot of men wouldn't do as much.

There was probably some deeper meaning in her words, but satisfaction at having snared her settled in bone deep. The weight of power was his. One corner of his brain counseled caution: an oversized, angry man could never be easy for a woman to face.

No matter. The flirt would get no quarter from him.

“How nice to see you again,
Miss
Tottenham
.” He smiled, lacking all warmth. “Are you looking for your shoe?”

There is in true beauty, as in courage, something which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.

William Congreve,
The Old Bachelor

Claire acknowledged an undeniable truth: a man always, always, always played a part in a woman's downfall. Though, not to put too fine a point on it,
her
own disastrous decisions created the shaky ground on which she currently stood. She couldn't avoid the painful truth of her circumstances any more than she could avoid Mr. Cyrus Ryland standing in front of her.

Nor was the matter helped by childhood biblical lessons booming in her head, all meant to rain down fresh guilt. If those storied reminders didn't keep a woman in line, she faced a sizable man ready to pour his brand of fire and brimstone inside her humble shop.

At least that's what she assumed by the sparks shooting from Mr. Ryland's hard, gray eyes. Unsteady nerves tied her legs in knots, but she'd defend her small slice of independence.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Ryland,” she said, lobbing a brazen volley. “And thank you, but you can keep the shoe.”

The cold, masculine smile stayed in place, but his eyebrows moved a fraction higher.

Did
he
expect
her
to
grovel?

She kept both hands on the counter. The way they stood, both could be squaring off over the same hotly contested territory. A spurt of pride bolstered her, despite the awful squeeze to her chest. Provoking the angry brute was not a good idea, but neither would she show fear.

Her brain ticked with the best solution to rid her shop of his presence: demonstrate proper success. Didn't the New Union Coffeehouse reflect midtown prosperity? England's King of Commerce understood one thing well: money. She was about to impress him with her freshly minted business skills when Mr. Ryland furnished his own announcement.

“That's good about your shoe, because it's with the magistrate.” His arms crossed, straining a fine black coat over broad shoulders.

“The magistrate?” Her voice thinned. “Why?”

“Let's see…an unknown woman sneaks into my home, hides in my study, only to flee suddenly at midnight.” He paused, and his voice turned brusque. “Of course I went to the magistrate. I was certain you stole something.”

She leaned against the counter, needing support. The sharp corner dug into her midsection with welcome pressure. Running off the way she did must've caused more of a stir than she had imagined. She had truly believed he would brush off their chance encounter.

“There's no need to involve Bow Street. I didn't steal anything. I assure you, I meant no harm.”

“Something in your practiced flirtation made me think otherwise.”

“Practiced flirtation?” A shrill laugh escaped her. “I'm nothing of the sort. What you see is an honest woman, an honest woman of
business
…just as I told you.”

“Then who was that woman rubbing against me while we danced?”

He asked the startling question with nonchalance, but her cheeks singed from the crude reminder. Mr. Ryland perused her pale gray workaday dress cinched with black ties from her waist to the modest, square neckline, where a neckerchief covered her skin. She didn't dress the part of a temptress.

Behind her, a commotion inserted a welcome break in her crisis. Jocular voices, laughter, and the footsteps of young men sounded from her kitchen. Ryland cocked his head at the disturbance.

“It's the messengers finishing up their stew,” she explained.

“Busy place.”

“Good for business, don't you think?” She managed a small smile, glad for the distraction.

Half a dozen young men, all on the verge of manhood, filed out of the kitchen, setting their Dutch caps on their heads. A few swiped their coat sleeves across their mouths, laughing and talking. But the roughly dressed youths chorused their appreciation for the meal. One of them, Sharp Eddie as he was called, snapped to attention on seeing Mr. Ryland, his hawk-like eyes taking special interest in her patron.

“Thanks, Miss Mayhew, we'll be off.” Sharp Eddie veered close to the counter, staring at Ryland.

The odd attention bordered on rude, but she had other things to attend than to puzzle over the lad's lack of manners. Two more men entered the shop, footmen enjoying their half day in search of coffee and macaroons. She obliged them, relieved to see to business rather than appeasement of an angry male. Mr. Ryland moved out of the way so she could tend her counter.

But he didn't leave.

That would make things too easy. Instead, arms still crossed, he leaned a hip against the counter and kept close vigil on her every move. Her jittery hands managed to pour two steaming cups for the men and scoop up the pence they left on the counter. With impish mischief, she noted Mr. Ryland wore less complicated neckwear today, but to comment on such would not be wise. She dropped the coins into her till box, her lips clamping shut.

Beneath the till, on the bottom shelf, a basket of clean linens cried for attention. Keeping busy offered an antidote to her upset. She reached for a newly laundered cleaning rag, glad for something to occupy her hands.

Mr. Ryland looked at the open archway leading to the kitchen. “The messengers, are they any relation to you?”

“I have no brothers and sisters or cousins for that matter.” She started folding the cloth, unsure how to adroitly remove his presence from her counter.

“A father?”

“Alive and well,” she said, making a tidy crease. “A land steward on the Greenwich Estate.”

Mr. Ryland's stony stare roved the shop, finally landing on the kitchen's entry. His gaze drifted up the narrow stairs, taut lines framing his mouth. She lived above those stairs.

“A husband, perhaps?”

She took a deep breath, her fingers fixing a messy corner. “I'm not married.”

Her shoulders were achingly rigid while finishing the cloth, a pristine square her final product. The cloth reflected order—order that failed to reach her jumbled senses. When she looked up, Mr. Ryland's mouth curved into a cool, discerning smile.

“I see what this is about.
You're
the letter writer. The one who pestered me for months to relax my rule requiring a man on the lease.”

She snapped straight another rag in want of a good folding, all the better to keep her from doing or saying the wrong thing.

“I am,” she admitted, her movement brittle.

Her hands made rapid progress, turning the cloth into a square identical to the first. Then, she grabbed a cheesecloth requiring order and whipped straight that linen, but erupting emotions bubbled higher, refusing to be bottled. Her ruin came in mere seconds—wasn't that always the case for a woman?—when words spouted with a life of their own.

“I'll have you know, I tried doing everything the right way”—she gave him a pointed look, the cheesecloth crumpling in her grip—“but you are impossible.”

“Is that so?”

“I find it hard to believe I'm the first woman to shed light on that particular corner of your character.”

She whipped the cheesecloth straight, and he moved off the counter, staying silent.

“I told Mr. Pentree I accosted you on the street outside your home and you signed the lease.”

“You…accosted me,” he repeated with some amusement.

“Yes. You may as well know I copied your signature that night in your study.” Her voice shook. “Your agent manages so many properties for you. I thought my shop would escape your notice.”

His eyes narrowed as facts must've settled in. She'd heard he was all about lists of numbers over lists of names.

“You mean you
lied
to Mr. Pentree.” A harsh, dry chuckle loosened him. “And since I signed no such document, we can add forgery to your list of crimes. Now I understand why you gave me a false name.”

“It was for a good end, I tell you.” She professed brave words, but her mouth went dry.

Swallowing became hard. Forgery of any kind guaranteed years of imprisonment but most often the offense won a quick trip to Tyburn gallows.

Surely
he
doesn't want that?

Ryland set both hands far apart on her counter, gaining her full attention. He leaned forward, his unbuttoned coat flapping open.

“Forgery's beyond Bow Street, miss. That's a crime against the Crown, a ticket to Tyburn. Have you any idea the trouble you'd be in if you faced another man right now?” He lowered his voice. “Or what that man might demand of you?”

Her knees weakened, making the floor like shifting quicksand beneath her. She scrambled to digest all the pieces of information coming at her. He didn't say he'd report the forgery, and he wasn't any other man: he was Cyrus Ryland. And she was completely ensnared in a neat trap of her own making with nowhere to go and no way out.

“If you don't report it, no one will know.”

“
That
was your plan?” His head jolted, eyes spreading wide. “Hope I'd stay silent?”

“I didn't have a plan.” She inched closer, all the better to keep their conversation private. “I didn't think I'd be caught. Merchants here told me you come to the Exchange once or twice a month, if that. They said you never set foot in Cornhill shops.”

“I did today, didn't I?”

Her shoulders crumpled under an unseen weight. “I didn't expect to see you again.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Had Mr. Ryland
wanted
to see her again?

She checked the shop beyond him. No one noticed them save Nate, who was sweeping the doorway, and the marquis and his brother looking with keen interest from a table near the window. She clamped the white cloth in both hands, the very picture of a supplicant beginning her appeal.

“It's in your best interest if I stay here. I'll make more money for you, working to pay the rent.”

“That's what this is about?” he snapped. “Money?”

A cold, ugly shiver touched her from her scalp to her feet. She never expected her actions would lead to disastrous consequences. Why would a man with so many properties stretching from the Midlands to London care about one little shop?

“Well, yes…isn't that what impels you?” Claire blinked, pulling back more, needing some space. “I thought money's what's most important to you. You are a man of business after all.”

Ryland scowled at her, the faint lines around his mouth deepening. Somehow, she'd touched a raw nerve. Yet she couldn't fathom why he'd be so bothered. He was England's man of the moment, the King of Commerce. Whatever caused his odd turn, Mr. Ryland kept it a secret.

Claire shifted her feet, relieving some of the pressure. She'd been on them all day, but this was not the time to let down her guard and rest.

“Now you've found me out, sir. What can I do to convince you to let me be?”

The quiet question hung between them when Annie emerged from the kitchen with a tray of custard tarts. She was dressed like Claire, in a dove-gray dress, save the sticky smears of egg yolk and butter on her apron. Her pale blue eyes lit with delight at the dozen tempting delectables on the tray before her.

“Look, Claire, I did it.” Annie flashed a gleeful grin at Claire, then addressed Mr. Ryland. “After many burnt offerings, I finally master her recipe.”

“They look perfect.” Claire's brows pressed with concern. “We've an hour or two to sell them before our doors close for the day, but I'm sure we will.”

This wasn't the right time to tamp down the woman's enthusiasm with worries over selling late-day goods. Her cook beamed, rosy cheeked from the baking victory; mastering the custard
was
a hard-won accomplishment for Annie.

With cloths in her grip to protect her hands, Annie levered the metal tray, sliding the fresh-baked pastries, dusted liberally with nutmeg, onto a display platter. She made a mental note to remind Annie to use a sparing hand with the costly spice. She'd say something tomorrow. Annie deserved this small victory today.

She checked Ryland's reaction to Annie's face. Pink marks mottled her cook's skin where she healed from a terrible beating. One could surmise she had survived something horrid. Mr. Ryland kept his anger at bay and tipped his well-groomed head with thoughtful gentleman's decorum to Annie.

“They look and smell excellent. I'll buy three of them, one for my coachman and two for the footmen attending my carriage.”

Annie's mouth flopped open. “Why that's right kind of you, sir.” She winked at Claire and nudged her with an elbow. “Now, there's a
very
nice
man. I'd let him dawdle at the counter, if I was you.”

With a firm nod, Annie walked back into the kitchen, singing a bawdy tune. The corners of Mr. Ryland's mouth curled with satisfaction, no doubt from her approving words. His pewter-colored stare ranged over Claire again.

“And do many men dawdle at your counter, Miss Mayhew?”

He asked the question, but his deep-Midlands accent turned the query into flirtation. She brushed her hands down her apron, meeting his bold perusal.

“A few,” she acknowledged and tipped her head at the fresh custards. “Did you mean it? About buying three tarts for the men attending you?”

“I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it.” He eyed the display platter and waved a hand over the dozen. “In fact, I'll take them all. I'd be obliged if you wrapped them for me.”

All
dozen
of
them?
Her jaw dropped momentarily, but she recovered, silently placing plain brown paper on the counter, grateful for his generosity. How could one stay upset in the face of such thoughtfulness as to purchase pastries for the people attending him? She knew how to respond to the man who fit neatly into the brutish, intractable mold she had cast for him, but Mr. Ryland chipped away at those set notions.